The boy, on the other hand, had his arms crossed over his chest and his feet spread wide, as if bracing himself. While his posture was rigid and unmoving, his gaze flicked restlessly around the room. He had the look of someone with at least a bit of Pyraean ancestry, though his hair was a soft, curling brown, and his golden skin had olive undertones.
Veronyka couldn’t figure out if he’d chosen to be there during her questioning or if he was being made to stay now as punishment. Maybe he wanted to make sure she was proven guilty to redeem himself in some way. The result of this interrogation would affect him almost as much as her, after all. If she truly was a threat, his apparent disobedience from earlier would be forgiven. If she turned out to be harmless—which she was—he’d look all the more foolish. Her success would mean his failure, and the dichotomy left her feeling like there was no way to really win.
Veronyka was oddly relieved when the woman named Morra arrived. She wasn’t what Veronyka was expecting—some wealthy lady with fine clothes and a noble look, like the commander. Instead she was short and stocky, with strong arms and a plain, no-nonsense kind of face, and she brought with her the warm, comforting scent of fried bread and spices. Her hands were calloused and blistered, and her forearms bore scars that certainly hadn’t come from the kitchens. She was Pyraean, her braided hair tied into a knot at the back of her head, the strands thick with adornments that clinked and jingled as she limped into the room. There were feathers there too, more than one, along with several gleaming chunks of obsidian.
A warrior. A Phoenix Rider.
Veronyka’s heart swelled at the sight of her—of a woman—at last.
Then Veronyka noticed that Morra leaned heavily on a wooden crutch to support her left leg, which had been cut off from the knee down. And as the woman moved past, Veronyka saw that Morra’s phoenix feathers were black on the ends—dipped in ink and ash, to honor a fallen bondmate.
Her stomach clenched. She’d had Xephyra too briefly to gather a feather, and with her braids gone, there was no evidence that she’d ever had a phoenix at all—no way to openly respect Xephyra’s memory or commemorate their time together.
Even with her short height, Morra somehow managed to look down her nose at Veronyka, surveying her from head to toe. Despite the woman’s humble appearance, when she edged around the table, Commander Cassian hastened to give up his seat to her and took a position standing in the corner next to the boy.
Morra indicated that Veronyka should take the chair opposite, and she did, perching on the edge and gripping her hands tightly together under the table.
They sat in silence for a moment. Who was this woman, and why did she do the commander’s questioning?
A heartbeat later she had her answer.
A finger of magic prodded against the natural barriers of Veronyka’s mind, testing the strength of her defenses. Fear sluiced through Veronyka’s body.
Morra was a shadowmage.
They called me the Feather-Crowned Queen, my brow decorated with phoenix quills, my right to rule written across the stars in fire. They called my sister the Council’s Queen, for she was nothing more than their puppet.
- CHAPTER 14 -
VERONYKA
VERONYKA CLAMPED DOWN ON her panic and schooled her features into her best impression of Val’s emotionless mask. Of all the things she didn’t want to reveal about herself, her possession of shadow magic was high on the list. If they didn’t trust her now, how would they react knowing she had the ability to see into and manipulate minds?
Morra wasn’t inside Veronyka’s head—not yet, anyway. She’d merely taken a cursory glance, and already she was receding, drawing her magic back in as she contemplated her next move. Her magical pressure was nothing like what Val was capable of, which probably meant her ability wasn’t as strong—or not as well honed. It was such a rare skill that even in the Phoenix Rider glory days they hadn’t tested people for it or educated them in its use. Val must have gotten so good because she used it constantly and because it was in her nature to want to control. Luckily, Val’s expertise had trained Veronyka well in how to defend against it.
If she was very careful, she could show Morra enough to prove her answers truthful without opening her mind entirely. Everything she didn’t want Morra to see, she’d lock up in her safe house. If it worked on herself and on Val, it would work on Morra.
With a soft exhalation of breath, Veronyka relaxed her mind. She often pictured her mental defenses as a wall of stones in the middle of a swirling river, the water surrounding her on all sides.
Veronyka stood inside that wall, and within it she was protected from outside influence. Whenever Val would tell her to guard her mind, Veronyka would imagine strengthening the wall, filling in the gaps with small rocks and pebbles, until nothing could get in or out.
When Veronyka’s defenses were at their strongest, the wall was watertight, but she couldn’t show Morra a mind as well protected as that, or she’d become suspicious. Veronyka had to loosen the stones, allowing cracks and crevices between them. This was her mind’s natural state, and as Veronyka opened herself up to external influence, she felt water streaming in through the openings—the thoughts and emotions of the humans and animals nearby.
Veronyka had to ignore the influx of information—the commander’s cold indifference and the boy’s resentful impatience, not to mention the fiery haze in the distance that was surely the phoenixes.
Focusing on herself, Veronyka let her head fill with safe, harmless thoughts, the half-truths that would confirm her answers.
She allowed them to float to the surface of her consciousness, easy for the picking, before turning her attention to that dark corner where her safe house lived, solid and impenetrable. There, with her memories of Xephyra, she could hide the truth of her gender, her own shadow magic, and the source of the dagger. After burying every compromising memory, she reinforced the barriers, walling it off from the rest of her mind, hiding it in plain sight.
“I’m Morra, and I run the kitchens here,” the woman said, drawing Veronyka back to the world around her. “What’s your name?”
As she spoke, Morra’s magic came back—harder and more insistent than before. Veronyka fought her instinct to draw herself inward and trusted that her safe house would hold.
Shadow magic only revealed active thoughts and feelings. . . . Morra couldn’t find what Veronyka refused to think about. All a shadowmage could see was the surface of a person’s mind—their current preoccupations. That was why Morra was questioning her rather than just taking what she wished from her mind.
“Nyk,” Veronyka whispered, pushing the word through her tense lips.
As long as Morra found the truths she sought, she’d have no reason to suspect deception. She was Nyk. She let the truth of it fill her up—and the fact that Nyk was short for Veronyka was unimportant.
Seeming satisfied, Morra pulled back. “How old are you? Twelve, thirteen?” she asked.
“Sixteen,” Veronyka corrected indignantly. She was used to people thinking she was younger than she was, and it was automatic to quickly—and somewhat defensively—set the record straight. In this instance, though, she wished she hadn’t been so rash. Surely it would have been easier pretending to be a young boy than a young man.
The apprentice in the corner snorted in disbelief at her response, further proving Veronyka’s theory.
“Where do you come from, Nyk?” Morra asked, speaking over the boy’s reaction.
“From lower down the mountain, miss. Just outside Vayle.” Again this was a truth, even if the full truth was that Veronyka was born in the valley, in Aura Nova. That, too, was hidden in her safe house. She knew, somehow, that any mention of the valley or the empire would compromise everything.
“Why, then, do you not speak with a Pyraean accent?”
Veronyka swallowed. “I . . .”
“Pyraeans on the lower rim speak with a certain lilt,” Morra continued thoughtfully, “and have a tende
ncy to draw out their vowels. It’s very distinctive. Of course, there are more and more now living in Pyra who weren’t born or raised here. Traders and travelers, refugees . . . spies . . .”
Veronyka clenched her fists. Her maiora had spoken in a rough Narrows accent, and her years of education with the Riders had never quite cured her of it. Val had insisted that Veronyka speak properly—like the noble classes of the empire, without accent or dialect—but it had never occurred to her how that would stand out in a place like this. A hundred excuses sat on the tip of her tongue, but she feared a trumped-up lie would raise more suspicion than the truth.
“My grandmother raised me, and she was educated in Aura Nova.” She had been the one to teach Veronyka reading and writing, but Val was the one who’d drilled pronunciation and syntax into her, making up for what she saw as the old woman’s shortcomings.
“Is she still with you, your grandmother?”
“No,” Veronyka said, her voice wavering slightly.
“Have you any other family?” Morra asked.
Veronyka swallowed the surge of emotion. “Just my sister.”
“Ah, yes, your sister. Beryk said there was an uncanny resemblance. . . . Are you twins?”
“No,” Veronyka said carefully, keeping her thoughts and memories of Val as vague as possible, not wanting to reveal her face—or Veronyka’s true feelings toward her at the moment—to Morra’s prying magic. Being twins might better explain away her close resemblance to the girl who had approached Beryk in Vayle, but Veronyka didn’t want to lie unnecessarily. At least now, if Morra did see Val’s face pop up in Veronyka’s mind, it wouldn’t contradict her story. “We’re a year apart.”
“And this sister . . . She told you to come here? Why?”
“Yes. She overheard the steward, Master Beryk, speaking ancient Pyraean, and—”
“That’s impossible,” the boy burst out, cutting her off. He’d stepped forward and pointed an accusatory finger at her. “How could a country girl from Vayle know ancient Pyraean? It hasn’t been spoken since the Reign of Wisdom and is only taught in empire classrooms or by tutors in noble households.”
Clearly he desperately wanted her to be wrong, to be dangerous or devious so that he could justify his earlier actions. She felt sorry for him, but if only one of them was going to make it out of this interrogation unscathed, it would be her.
“My maiora taught me, and she was educated in Aura Nova,” Veronyka repeated flatly, substituting the Pyraean word for grandmother to prove her point. It was true that most Pyraeans knew only a handful of words in the ancient tongue. It was considered a dead language, learned by the priests of Mori—god of knowledge and memory—to study ancient texts and by the empire upper classes as part of a well-rounded education. The Phoenix Riders used it as well, and many of their formations, training techniques, and communication cyphers were dependent upon understanding ancient Pyraean.
“Tristan,” the commander said in a low, dangerous voice, and the boy stepped back from the table at once, as if scalded. “We will let Morra handle the questioning.”
“What did your sister tell you?” Morra pressed, once the commander had nodded that she should continue.
“She said she’d heard mention of Phoenix Riders. When she spoke to the steward, he denied it, but he told her that when he did recruit, he was only looking for boys. So she thought I might have better luck.”
“You traveled an awfully long way on such scant information.”
“We don’t have much, my sister and I,” Veronyka said, speaking with complete honesty. “I want to be a Phoenix Rider. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I don’t care about anything else.”
Veronyka swallowed and looked down, avoiding Morra’s eye so she could gather herself. Xephyra was fluttering against the walls of her safe house, trying to escape, but she couldn’t let her break through. If she told them about Xephyra, then she’d have to tell them what had happened to her. Who in their right mind would give a phoenix to a girl who’d allowed her last bondmate to be murdered by her own sister?
“You don’t have much, but you have a Ferronese steel dagger?” Tristan jumped in, apparently unable to help himself.
“I found it,” Veronyka said, more firmly than she had to the commander when he’d first asked her. Tristan’s aggression was making her own temper rise, but she was relieved to get to the heart of the interrogation. She might be lying about some things, but she was no spy. She focused: In her mind she pictured the knife lying in the dirt and clamped tight on her memories of the cabin that surrounded the dirt, closing out Val and Xephyra and the soldier and all that came before it.
“He’s lying,” Tristan said, looking between Morra and the commander. His tone was scathing, making it clear what he thought of liars. “That’s an army-issue dagger. Look at the bottom of the hilt—that’s a soldier identification number.”
Veronyka frowned, glancing down at the knife where it lay on the table between them. Indeed, there was a series of numbers carved into the grip.
“There’s no way he just found it. Best case, he stole it—it’s probably worth more than his house.” He looked away at his last words, as if recognizing that they were cold and uncaring—and probably true.
“It is,” Veronyka admitted, her voice trembling slightly as she stared at the dagger. “I could have traded it, bartered it for gold or enough food to last my sister and me for a couple of months. But instead I saved it, hoping it was worth enough to buy a place here. I guess I was wrong.”
Veronyka knew she was exaggerating and bending the truth, but she needed them to side with her.
When she looked up, there was pity in Morra’s and Commander Cassian’s eyes—and to her surprise, regret in Tristan’s—and though she hated to appear weak and vulnerable, she knew it helped her cause.
So let them pity her. Let them believe her small lies and big truths. Let it be enough.
“You forget yourself, Tristan,” Morra said in a low, disappointed voice. “You forget your roots.”
“Leave us,” the commander said to Tristan, his tone holding none of Morra’s polite censure.
Tristan looked like he wanted to retort, a spasm crossing his face as he fought to control himself. “Yes, Commander,” he said through clenched teeth. Then he strode out the door, slamming it behind him.
The atmosphere in the room changed with his departure, and Morra’s presence in Veronyka’s mind receded. She and Cassian shared a look, and Veronyka got the feeling that she had passed their inspection.
“Thank you, Morra,” the commander said at last.
With a nod at Veronyka, Morra got to her feet, following Tristan out of the room. The commander retook his seat. They were alone.
“When I was a boy,” he began, settling comfortably into his chair, “becoming a Phoenix Rider was a family legacy—something I inherited, much like my title and my lands.” Veronyka was thrown by the turn the conversation had taken, but she tried to follow along. “For years I served, and our mission was clear: to guard the empire and protect its people. But,” he said with a sigh, “the Blood War saw our duty muddled beyond recognition. I lived to see the Phoenix Riders change from a government-sanctioned military order to a rebellion, to something akin to a private army. Under Avalkyra Ashfire, we served her purpose—her ambitions and her goals—and no one else’s. With her death, those of us who survived struggled to find our place in this new world order. I have since recognized that our mission, our purpose, cannot be to one person, one country, or even one province; it must be to all people, but especially to our fellow animages. We are united—not by political boundaries or cultural histories—but by magic. We are everywhere, and yet we have nowhere. We have no safe place, no home to call ours. I seek to rectify that. Azurec’s Eyrie is a start.”
Veronyka’s heart swelled with his words. He was right. The Phoenix Riders that had served the empire for almost two hundred years were no more, and they had to come together for a new purpose.
<
br /> “That being said,” the commander continued, “we are a small operation at the moment, and I have to be prudent. We must build our strength slowly, cautiously. In the beginning it was just myself and Beryk—we’d flown together in the war, and I knew where he’d gone into hiding in the aftermath. It took us years to find Fallon, a young Rider who’d yet to see any action, and we stumbled upon him mostly by chance. Surely there are others, Phoenix Riders in hiding all over the empire and beyond, but we cannot go searching blindly for them and risk drawing attention to ourselves or to them. It wouldn’t do for the empire to learn that Riders are mustering on Pyrmont. The empire may have little interest in reclaiming Pyra, but it would have great interest in destroying us.”
“But I didn’t—I would never . . . ,” Veronyka began, confused. She’d thought they’d determined she wasn’t a threat.
He waved her off. “What I mean to say is that recruiting has been difficult for us. While there are many with the gift of animal magic, there are few with the gold to fund their training. Raising, housing, and feeding phoenixes costs money, Nyk—my money—not to mention the price of a horse, fireproof saddle and tack, armor, and weapons. I have to feed guards and servants, pay wages, build and make repairs, and my coffers are not what they once were.” He lifted the dagger from the middle of the table, turning it over in his hands before giving it back to her. “Phoenixes are too rare and precious for us to have poor peasant lads bonding with them, who are then unable to afford the cost of proper training. I’m sorry.”
Helplessness seized Veronyka as she gripped the hilt of the dagger. Suddenly Phoenix Riding was only for the rich? The First Riders didn’t have coffers filled with gold; they had phoenixes, the only wealth a person ever needed.
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